


Life Guards

by tsukinofaerii



Series: Learning to Swim [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Family Feels, Multi, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1268749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/tsukinofaerii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding out you're going to be a maybe-honorary grandparent isn't always easy. It's all in how the news was broken. (With bonus Scott.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Melissa

There were some things Melissa could put up with. Sixty-seven hours of labor. A divorce that was _still_ on-going years later. Werewolves. 

The best ass in the hospital staying seated for his nearly entire shift was not one of them. There were very few things that made night shifts worthwhile, and she was not going to take the loss of one of them lying down.

Well. Maybe she would. That was a thought for later.

Putting on her most concerned, stern expression—the one she used to pretend to care when her ex came calling—Melissa plopped herself over the top of the counter Derek was hiding behind. Records rattled in their shelves. The edge of the cabinets dug into her stomach, but it gave her an unimpeded view of the man behind the counter and his adorably grumpy face. "Talk." 

Derek's fingers moved so fast to close what he was doing that the plastic keyboard actually had a little crack in it. "I'm fine." 

Her expression didn't need help rearranging itself into polite disbelief. Nineteen years of motherhood had made it instinctive. "Honey, if that's the first thing out of your mouth, you are most definitely _not_ fine." 

It had been a while since she'd seen Derek revert back to the angry, hard young man he'd been before things had settled down. His fingers curled over the desk, very human nails scratching at the shiny, faux marble. His eyebrows formed a sharp V of annoyance, and she could see his teeth grinding. In the clear, bright fluorescent lights, Melissa could actually make out the tiny changes in his bone structure, a slight red hint around the edges of his irises. 

And then he just deflated, slumping forward. His head hit the desk with a soft, hollow _thunk_. 

Melissa's heart ached. Reaching out, she carded her fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. There wasn't any gel in it. That should have been the first sign, even before Derek planted his fine ass in a chair when he usually preferred the footwork. "Is this about Allison?" she asked quietly. When he stiffened suddenly, she knew she'd hit a bulls-eye. "Don't worry. It's normal to be overwhelmed. I was when I had Scott, and he wasn't an oops."

Without moving his head, Derek's muffled voice said, "How did you know?"

"Who do you think she came to see? Lydia might have let a name slip." Melissa kept petting him. It worked on Scott when he was little. Worked on him even better now that he was a werewolf, as long as she could manage to sneak up on him for some covert cuddling action. "Things will be rough, but you two will make it." 

It looked like it was working on Derek, too. He turned his head slightly into the touch, though it ground his nose against the desk. "It's not just..." His mouth worked, like he was trying out words. "Three. Us three. There's Stiles, too."

 _Stiles?_ The boy whose throat she'd spent several long, long years fishing things out of? The Stiles who managed to set fire to her curtains that one time? Long practice kept Melissa's expression still, but her heartbeat must have given her away, because Derek's shoulders hunched in. He looked like a particularly muscular hermit crab trying to vanish into a set of scrubs. 

"Well," she started, measuring her words as she went, "I can't say I'm not surprised. Is that what's bothering you? That it's not..." She hated the word that was about to roll off her tongue, and couldn't hold back a wince as she said, "Traditional?"

To his immense credit, Derek actually thought about it before shaking his head. That the movement just bumped his skull more firmly against Melissa's hand, like a cat begging to be scratched, she was sure it was a fluke. "No. I just... When she told us, it seemed easy. Like we could just do this, and it would be okay. Me, Allison and Stiles. We could do it. And now..."

 _Ahah._ "And now, you've remembered that some days you can't be bothered to put on pants, the only food in your cabinets is a bag of expired cheerios, and you wonder if you'll ever be adult to take care of yourself and your pa—family, much less a tiny person?" 

As she spoke, Derek's eyebrows climbed his forehead. Melissa nodded to herself. She'd already mentally prepared to give Scott this speech—hopefully in a few years at least—but she could repurpose it. No point in letting an opportunity go to waste.

"Let me tell you something, Derek." Leaning forward even more, Melissa moved from petting Derek's hair to gripping his hands. "This thing where you feel like you're not ready? Completely normal. And it doesn't go away." A small, fond smile crept over her face. "Some days, I look at Scott and I feel like there's no way I did that. I couldn't have raised this brilliant, caring, wonderful person on my own, there's got to be some mistake. He's nineteen, and I still feel like I'm one bad bottle of formula from disaster.

"But you guys? You're good people, and I know you'll give it everything you've got. You're not ready, but you'll do it anyway, because you're going to love that baby like no one else in the world ever could, and that's really what matters." 

It could have been her imagination, but she thought she saw Derek's eyes shine a little more than could be explained by the overheads. "I— thank you."

She squeezed his hands and smiled. "Just remember that Grandma Melissa gets first dibs on babysitting duty when it comes around, okay? I didn't go through almost two decades of Stiles not to get _some_ benefits."


	2. The Sheriff

"Sheriff, your baby boy's here." 

Sheriff Stilinski peered over the top of his monitor warily. Monica, the elderly lady on desk duty at the moment, was blocking the entirety of the doorway, with her arms crossed and her hip cocked. Disapproval painted her face more vividly than her bright pink lipstick. Behind her, he could see one of Stiles' legs sticking awkwardly out into the hall, tapping nervously. 

His eyes narrowed. "Nothing official?" 

"Not that's come across my desk." Monica didn't do a very good job of hiding her smile. "But he asked if you've got your gun on you. Seems kind of worried about something."

It hadn't exactly been a quiet summer. There hadn't been any quiet summers since the _werewolves_ came to light. But Stiles hadn't gotten himself shot or arrested, and the most dangerous incident—that the Sheriff knew of—was a couple of confused hunters that the Argents turned around and shipped off without any bloodshed. The mermaid thing— _mermaids!_ —had been quiet, other than what Melissa said was a spike in accidental pregnancy and embarrassing emergency room visits. It was a knotty problem, but not one that was actually _a problem_ as far as the law was concerned.

Stiles, though, had been on his best behavior. That was worrying. Ever since he'd realized that Stiles was actually maintaining reasonable hours and not stealing from his alcohol cabinet on weekends, the Sheriff had been bracing for the fallout of whatever it was his son had gotten into. 

No help for it. The Sheriff sighed and leaned back in his elderly, poorly padded office chair. "Send him in. Remind him that I know where he sleeps."

She flashed him a vicious smile before vanishing back to the front. The Sheriff started watching the clock.

It took about three minutes for Stiles to sidle into the office. He barely opened the door enough to skim in, and then hovered beside it like he was rethinking admitting to his life of crime. As if there were any chance of him getting out the door without at least three different deputies tackling him. Stiles was fast, but they were faster. 

His son must have spotted the lost cause too, because he slunk over to the visitor's chair and dropped down into it like a condemned man sitting in the electric chair. He perched right on the edge, bouncing his knees and fingers and—yes, chewing through his lip. 

"So. I need you to not be mad at me." Stiles' hair, which was never exactly tidy since he'd started growing it out, looked like he'd spent the day yanking on it. Even his clothes were nervous—there were ironing creases in his jeans. He only ironed when he was spending too much time thinking about things. "Like, really. Promise me."

 _Oh boy._ The Sheriff folded his hands. "Why don't you tell me what it is, and then I'll tell you if I'm mad."

Stiles' expression closed in, and he bit down so hard that he winced. "How about you let me finish before deciding if you're mad?" 

_Oooooh boy._ Negotiating. They were in trouble. But if Stiles needed some sort of guarantee, it was better to give it than to risk him walking out. That had happened a couple times in the past, and the Sheriff wasn't eager to repeat it. "Deal. I'll hear you out before making any decisions."

More fidgeting. Stiles nodded and looked down, twisting his hands together. Patiently, the Sheriff waited him out. He hadn't seen Stiles this edgy since... Since Scott had been bitten, actually. 

A tiny, tight ball of fear like ice curled up in the Sheriff's stomach. It wasn't a secret that Stiles had been spending a lot of time with Derek, lately. Their unofficial rule of _no bite until you're eighteen_ was well and truly expired. He hadn't thought Stiles would want to be a werewolf. But there were advantages, no arguing that. And it could be hard on a boy, when most of his friends were into something and he wasn't. Sure, Stiles _said_ he was in the pack and that it didn't bother him not to be a wolf, but...

Somewhere in the middle of that thought, Stiles visibly braced himself and squared his shoulders, chin coming up. Politely, the Sheriff sat back and waited, forcing himself to swallow down the worries until he'd heard things out. It was all he could do.

"First, you need to know that I've been seeing Allison and Derek," Stiles said firmly, like he expected to be shut down then and there. When the Sheriff didn't immediately break his promise, Stiles rallied and continued. "All summer. I guess we weren't careful enough, because Allison's pregnant and she wants to keep the baby. Derek and I agreed to support her however she needs."

For a long second, all the Sheriff could do was stare. _I screwed up somewhere._ The words processed through and rattled around in his head to settle somewhere near the back, harsh and razor-edged, poison. It was hard, very hard, not to think that this wouldn't have happened if Claudia were alive. No matter how irrational, it was the kind of self-blame that had a way of swinging around again and again.

But Stiles never needed to hear those thoughts. Stiles took too much on his shoulders already, and the Sheriff wasn't going to add to that. He sat back, took a breath, and said, "You're okay?"

Stiles worked his knuckles so hard that they cracked. Eventually, he nodded. "I think I will be, yeah. We're working out plans—school and stuff, you know, and Allison's pretty sure her dad's insurance will take care of it." He smiled tightly, a thin press of the lips that barely curved upward at the corners of his mouth. "I'm scared." 

It was the kind of honesty that a lot of men twice, three times Stiles' age weren't capable of. But there he was, sitting straight up in the chair, feet planted, meeting his father's eyes straight on. It made him look adult. _Capable_. The Sheriff remembered when those feet would have been swinging off the floor, and there would have been marker all over his face and hands. Lunch breaks with PB &J and apple juice. A bald spot where he'd tried to cut his hair on his own, because his mom couldn't do it anymore. 

He blinked back a surge of tears. "When the Hell did you become a man on me?" 

Standing, the Sheriff held out his arms. Stiles lunged into them, nearly leaping the desk to do it. The Sheriff held on like he could cling to those last shreds of childhood they still had left if he just tried hard enough. 

"I got you, son," he murmured, so choked up that it was nearly impossible to make out the words. "I got you."


	3. Chris

Chris juggled the grocery bags in both hands as he maneuvered himself around the dark parking lot. He was loaded down with fresh pasta, meat, cheese and tomatoes, and it made for awkward dodging between sardine can vehicles. Allison had been saying something about wanting _real_ lasagna, not the stuff the pizzeria tried to pass off, and Chris wasn't above indulging her. She'd be going back to school soon. He had to steal what time he could now.

It must have been that he was getting old, or maybe just that he was getting soft. Chris was nearly to his SUV before he felt the eyes on him, heard the footstep in the dark. As soon as it registered, he ducked around a minivan and dropped his bags. He didn't carry a gun anymore—a severe miscalculation—but the knife in his ankle sheath would do. 

No sooner had he stepped out of sight than a dark-clad figure slipped off the top of the van. They—she—wrapped her legs around his waist and slapped a damp rag to his mouth as they rolled to the concrete. Chris held his breath, but the damage was done. Something sharp and herbal burst on the back of his tongue, flooding down his throat. He tried to bite down on the hand blocking his mouth, but the cloth—cloth soaked in the same solution—got in the way.

The world tilted dangerously around him. On his back, the woman's weight stayed steady, holding him pinned while whatever it was did its work. Chris tried once to roll her off, but she just shifted her weight with him, and he was already too far gone. His head spun, damp asphalt cool under his cheek, light dancing off it in little hitches and waves that were broken only by the shadow of a dropped tomato. 

Then it all blurred away.

* * *

When Chris' world refocused, it didn't do it very quickly. It came back in stages. First, he could feel his head, hovering about three feet above the rest of his body and spinning gently. Then the ropes around his wrists and ankles registered, and the gag between his teeth. Finally, the rest of him settled into the varied aches and bruises that always came from an abduction. It had been a while, but it wasn't the kind of thing a man ever forgot. 

_Damn it, Hale,_ he thought tiredly. _What have you gotten us into now?_ Because of course it was Derek's fault. He might be on the side of good for now, but he was a werewolf, from a family of werewolves. Trouble followed his kind like a puppy.

The work on the ropes was depressingly professional. Not too tight, not too loose, and the knots were carefully done not to tighten when he pulled, so there was no chance of finding extra leeway there. His chair was metal—no breaking it without breaking himself. And, as if that weren't bad enough, his gag was made of firm leather straps that weren't going to be slipping any time soon. Chris methodically tested every angle he could think of, but nothing wanted to give. 

Across the room came the unmistakable sound _click_ of a crossbow being loaded. It carried in the wide open metal and concrete space that had a feeling of _abandoned warehouse_ to it. Chris' head swiveled toward the sound.

A female figure leaned against the wall in a dim corner, crossbow pointed directly at him. "Hi, Dad." 

_Allison?_ He gaped around his gag.

Sure enough, his little girl stepped straightened and stepped close enough that he could make out her face in the shadows. She was dressed in black head to toe, with her hair pulled back and a pair of gloves on her hands. A little burst of pride curled through him when he saw how steady she was holding the weapon on him. No squeamishness about holding her own father hostage. In a lot of ways, she really was her mother's daughter. 

"We need to have a talk." The tip of the bolt caught a beam of moonlight where it broke in through a window. "I know you wouldn't want to do anything rash, so I thought this might help. Comfy?" 

He glared at her and made a noise of muffled complaint, scraping his chair legs against the concrete. 

"Good. Hold that thought." Without letting the point waver, Allison crouched down so he could look her in the eye more easily. "Dad, I'm pregnant."

The air punched out of his lungs in a whoosh. His eyes bulged, and his face turned hot with a low burn of rage. 

If Allison noticed, she didn't care. "Either Derek or Stiles is the father and, honestly, I don't care which, but it's probably Derek. The timing would be right, and he used a condom less than Stiles."

The more words that came out of Allison's mouth, the sicker he felt. Didn't she _know_ what she was doing—what it _meant_? Three centuries of tradition, down the drain. It was one thing to be friends with a few tame monsters, but to _have a baby with one_...

Allison waited for him to run out of breath, to stop screaming behind the leather in his teeth, her expression flat and unyielding. Then she started talking again, drilling her point in home. "I know how risky it could be. I know what people are going to say. I know..." For the first time, her voice wavered, cracking for a fraction of a second before turning back into steel. "I know what I'm doing. And you don't have to like it, but you do have to accept it. I'm the head of this family, and you will accept my decision or..." A brief, bitter smile flickered over her lips. "Or you won't." 

Chris stared at her, panting through his nose. He wanted to yell _you don't mean that_ , to say _I'm your father_ and _this is going to get you killed and I can't lose you too_. The words burned the back of his tongue, trapped there by the leather between his teeth. 

"Now, I'm going to go to see my _boyfriends_ , and we're going to have dinner." With careful fingers, Allison pulled the bolt from her crossbow and rose to her feet. She passed behind him with silent footsteps. A second later, he felt the bolt pressed into his palm. "Take your time thinking things over. Come find me when you've decided." 

His head hung, the bolt limp in his fingers. Too many thoughts whipped through his head, all of them laced with utter terror. Not for himself, but for her. For his baby girl, who might have thought she was ready, but never could be. Not for this. Never for this. 

Allison kissed his cheek and then stepped back. 

He didn't hear her leave.


	4. Scott

Scott sat on the very edge of Derek's couch, hands on his knees. It was a couch. Just a couch. Definitely not a couch that _things_ had happened on, and especially not things that he'd accidentally seen a few too many times. Nope. Didn't happen. 

It wasn't that he was a prude. It was just... Allison was his ex-girlfriend, and Stiles was his mostly-not-incestuous (one time playing seven minutes in heaven in junior high didn't count) brother and Derek was... Derek, a guy whose junk Scott had honestly never wanted to get personal with. There were just too many layers of complications. Scott really preferred to keep things as separate as possible, and that included not sitting on a sex couch.

But something was clearly going down, which meant his boxes needed to be unpacked a little. Allison and Stiles arrayed themselves on the ottoman in front of him, wedged together from knee to hip and holding hands so hard that their fingers were turning red. Derek lurked in a corner, but it wasn't the creeper lurking of old. It was a half-violent, ready-to-protect-his-pack lurking. Scott hadn't seen that in a while. All of their hearts pounded like the drums at a rock concert, and they reeked of pasta and nerves.

"So..." He looked back and forth between the two on the ottoman and Derek's Corner. "Anyone want to tell me why you called...?" 

Stiles fidgeted. Allison ducked her head. Derek just made a grumpy face and really? They were supposed to be over that. 

Of course, it was Stiles who actually started talking, because Stiles was his bro. "Um," he said, flexing his hand in Allison's death grip. "You... We kind of have—"

"I'm going to have a baby!" Allison blurted out suddenly, then gasped and shoved Stiles' knuckles between her teeth. By Stiles' wince, there was actual biting action going on. 

It only took a second for Scott to figure out the really important part of that. "I'm going to be an _uncle_?" He demanded, face lighting up in delight. "Really?"

They didn't react as fast as he did, but it was fast enough. "Yeah, you're going to be an uncle," Stiles grinned, and if it was kind of shaky, Scott wasn't going to say. Stiles was going to be _a dad_ , he was allowed to be weird for a while. 

"Oh man, I'm so happy for you guys!" Scott rushed them, scooping them both up into a hug that nearly squashed them down against the ottoman, careful not to jostle Allison too much, just in case. The rumble-bounce of Stiles' laughter played against his shoulder, and he could feel Allison crying but she smelled happy and it was just the most amazing thing. 

Over Stiles' shoulder, Derek was still glowering in his post, visibly bristling. Rolling his eyes, Scott jerked his head. "Come on, you too." 

Reluctantly, Derek edged over close enough for Scott to snag his arm and drag him in. He didn't even care when Derek tried to stay stiff for a whole three seconds before subtly leaning into the pile. He didn't care about anything.

He was going to be an _uncle_. 

_Hell yeah._


End file.
